Shadows and echoes
by Spirit of dawn
Summary: Takeouts, roads not taken, glances behind the scenes for the City Of Glass - or rather a collection of stories where Spirit is walking through her own canon and having a little fun with it. Mostly pairing stories, but really a collection of scenes I liked but could not use for the City of Glass
1. An introduction to the story

**Shadows and Echoes - an Introduction and HowTo  
**

And now, for something completely different.

Although I am still full within writing of the city of glass, ( s/9010627/1/City-of-glass), my (several) novel length Les Miserables story, I have decided to put up a few outtakes and snippets, that never made it into the original book. Scenes that were deleted because the story did demand I move past them, or even alternate roads that I finally decided not to go for.

I recommend you read the city of glass first. I did not make a particular effort, I will confess, to make these items more understandable for those who have not read the city of glass (although most of them CAN stand alone, I would wager)

Most of the snippets refer to a pairing, so I am always including that into the respective chapter.

As a side note, technically also my two other stories in the Les Miserables/City of Glass universe would fit within this anthology, Ma Tendre Musette (dealing with Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet; s/9217565/1/Ma-tendre-Musette) and Two Pillars and an Arc (dealing with Javert's childhood: s/9362202/1/Two-pillars-and-an-arc) , but for historical reasons I will leave them where they are.

As always, I would very much enjoy to receive some comments. I hope you like it.


	2. Combeferre Helene (AU): Before the storm

**One must be pretty strange to write AUs for one's AU. But frankly, this is a look into my "writers board". A scene I had written for a previous draft of the story - a reconciliation for Combeferre and Helene after Helene is released from prison.**

**I did not take it for a number of reasons - mainly a few reactions feel a bit un-Combeferre-y to me. He would bitterly regret what happened here once morning comes (no, nothing NC17 rated, but you will see for yourself) - which I couldn't use in the end.. - and also I realized (this scene would have been on the evening of the 3rd of June) that I would need Combeferre in working order earlier already. This is why the scene got in the end discarded, but I thought maybe people are interested in reading it none the less.**

**It assumes that Combeferre and Helene did not find a way of dealing with each other over writing articles for le Globe - but it does assume that Helene will be replaced from prison.**

**As a side note one might also realize that no one seems to have died during the explosion in the Corinthe - at that point in time I was still wondering whether Bossuet or Grantaire should die in the Corinthe (both would have had their charms for the character development of others) and therefore I kept my options open...**

* * *

**Combeferre and Helene(AU): Before the storm**

He had stopped counting after the third mug of heavy, provencal red.

Well, he knew that there had been more than these three, so maybe it was, for all intents and purposes, fair to say that he had stopped counting after the fourth.

Now, hours later, as the midnight bell from the Saint Michel tower had come and gone, he finally began to feel some sort of levity again, found – as Grantaire had pointed out hours, mugs, lifetimes ago – at the bottom of a bottle, and he was all but glad for it.

Two days…

Two days until the storm would hit.

At the bottom of the bottle, the words lost both terror and promise.

Slowly, warmth had begun to spread throughout his limbs, chasing away the ever present tension, if only for a while.

He would regret it in the morning; that he knew, but it had been a while since he had had a moment of peace and he would enjoy it and deal with the consequences later.

He closed his eyes, pretending to relish in the taste of the wine, full and rich and just dry enough to remind him of warm summer days in his parents' garden, back in Toulouse, so far away, when childhood cares had been all that had bothered him. A sweet memory of paradise lost.

But truth to be told, the taste had ceased to matter some time ago, as pleasant dizziness had taken over, blurring candles into a warm golden light that caressed the faces of his friends, that supported the languid, content feeling which gripped him effortlessly.

He was quiet, even in inebriation, watching with a mixture of fondness and satisfaction as Courfeyrac and Bossuet had taken it upon them to tease an equally drunk Joly about something that Combeferre did not fully follow. He did not listen so much to the words as to the subtexts of their bantering, the comforts of friendship and familiarity, fondness in smiles and brothers' love in tender jokes.

In the blur of the last week, he would have almost forgotten about it. How much beauty there was found in the face of man.

"See?" Grantaire, sitting at his side, was grinning broadly, taking another, deep sip and knocking back the liquid with years of experience. "Told you so."

He had, in fact, and so had Courfeyrac, equally adamant about the fact that he should stop moping and worrying and have a celebration with them – for whatever it was to celebrate. Enjolras, Éponine, the Sellers and Lamarin had stayed in the back room discussing, but Combeferre had found no mercy with them, even though he tried.

Enjolras, of all people, had told him to go down with the others, and so he had obeyed the command, his own star of guidance lost in the brawl of the previous days.

All was better now, and he nodded towards Grantaire, tipping his mug slightly in a mock salute and taking another sip.

"I admit nothing", he answered drily, glad, that his voice was still remarkably clear given the overall circumstances, and Grantaire grinned, downing the rest of his drink.

"Expected nothing else."

Combeferre leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, his limbs languid and relaxed, and enjoyed the pleasant reverie, only slightly broken by a very familiar sound that his hazed thoughts took a moment to categorize.

Only then, raising himself carefully again, he took a gaze to the opening door of the Café, whose telltale creak alerted him of the intrusion of more visitors into their companionable assembly.

Fire ran through his veins like a promise, when he realized it was her.

* * *

Hélène stepped into the warm, golden glow of the Café and heard, absent-mindedly only, that Pierre was closing the door behind him, the item giving of an offended squeaking at being handled thus, as if to remind her that what she was doing was neither appropriate nor advisable.

Pierre had told her so, and if he had been present, Olinde would have certainly concurred, but Hélène had listened to neither of them and insisted, until the xylographist had let her go, on the condition that he were allowed to accompany her, at least.

Since she had been released from La Force, they had been crowding around her, one of her faithful associates always in a present, making sure that she was never in want of a glass of water, a chair to sit, an article to review…

It was their way, Hélène thought, of showing how glad they were that she was back, for a little while at least.

As she was. Infintely.

And yet, she was immeasurably drawn towards this place, towards the Café that the Amis de l'ABC called home. The place, where they had forged dreams, and shared laughter and plans. The place where both Alexandre and she had been happy, marveling at the companionship of those, that believed in the same things they did.

In the golden glow of oil lamps and candles they had seen worlds reborn, had laughed and raged, and it was here, of all things, that she felt inclined to crawl to, now, in the deep of the night, when her specters were lurking in her parents' mansion, in that dark, silent room that was not hers any more.

The ghost of Alexandre and all that he had wished had seeped into the walls of the Café, and next to the print shop, this was where she felt closest to him.

It had nothing to do, of course, with the fact that chances were high that Combeferre was here, as well.

Hélène was fully aware of how inappropriate her behavior was. She was still wearing the black widows' garb, had shifted only the veil so that it was draped around her hair instead of her face, visible reminder of the fact that Alexandre's death was only so few days away.

She had no business being here, a young widow, still under suspicion of murder, among those students who were planning at a revolution, in the middle of the night, in this café, that was closed to business already but open to those, that were known and loved here.

Still, there was no place she would rather be. And two days before the end of the world, it did hardly matter.

Most of them were sitting at a table, close to the bar, and there was the sweet smell of wine lingering in the air, and laughter ringing in her ears and soothing the memory of cold, dark prison walls.

He sat among them, chair slightly pushed back from the table, long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles in a leisurely, relaxed posture which told her that the mug standing before him was probably not his first. His hair was slightly mussed from his habit of running his fingers through it in a nervous gesture, and he had leaned back, as if to survey the antics around the table from a greater distance.

He looked more relaxed than she had seen him in months.

His gaze fixed upon her immediately and infallibly, and for a moment, there was a world in his eyes and he smiled, openly, unreservedly, giving her so very warm a welcome that Hélène quickly understood, that he was in fact fairly drunk.

She would have almost flinched at this. This was a recipe for disaster.

And yet, she was Hélène de Cambout. She finished what he started.

As Pierre stepped towards the table, greeting those of the friends that he knew better, before settling next to Feuilly, who offered him a mug of the wine as well, Hélène squared her shoulders and stepped towards him, his gaze upon her like a warming glow of light, drawn like a moth to the flame; hoping with deep, infallible trust that he would, in the end, not burn her.

"Madame", he greeted her, his voice slightly thick with wine, and reached out an arm to draw up a chair for her in a strangely unguarded way, stretching like a cat as he did not get up but simply reached as far as he could get. He grabbed the back of the chair and scratched it over the floor until it stood at his side, twisted it around with one hand until it faced towards the table – almost toppling in the process, but he caught it just in time. An offering hand completed the odd gesture, that seemed so much out of character in its drunken, languid grace. "Please. Sit."

Hélène felt slightly unsettled at this – his eyes were still fixed on her and there was a gleam in them that confirmed her suspicion of him having had quite an impressive amount of wine. She declined getting a mug of her own from Grantaire – no need to enhance the still everpresent morning sickness with spirits – and nodded a greeting into the assembly before turning to Combeferre again.

"Good evening Monsieur."

He smiled at that again – slightly ruefully, though, but it was a grace in itself to see him smile unguardedly again. It had been so long since she last saw this, and it was a balm on long bleeding wounds.

"As you can see", he explained with a shrug, looking into his mug that was less than half-full, "my friends have seen it fit to engage me in a celebration… of an occasion that I cannot fully fathom, and I have felt myself unable to decline."

"So I see", Hélène answered with a responding smile. "I hope you are enjoying it."

"I am", he answered, sounding astonished at his admission, lifting his gaze again to look at her, a slight frown appearing on his forehead. "I… am."

She had to look away at the echoes of his smile, placing her hands into her lap carefully and resting her eyes on them, not wanting to meet his eye, but not wanting to look at his friends either.

The levity in this room was a labyrinth of pitfalls for her.

Silence settled for a moment, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see him turn back as well, his movements still carrying that slightly unconscious grace, beauté des esprits, as the poets called it, and never more true than in this man, who kept a tight control on himself from the moment he opened his eyes, but now found himself bested by the drinks he had had.

"How are you?"

The question was soft, and much more sober than his previous words, as his fingers fiddled uneasily with the mug. His eyes were firmly fixed before him, on something that only he could see, but Hélène knew that he was addressing her, like she knew the sun would go up in the morning.

"Well", she answered, partly truthfully. "Now I am well." She could not help some of the content seeping into her voice that this place brought to her, in contrast to the dark, silent house in Rue d'Olivel or the home of her parents' that had belonged to the child she once was and now was no more.

His eyes flickered to her quickly at that, a glimmer of intelligence in them – not quite as drunk yet, Hélène concluded – and then back to his previous, unintelligible point of interest.

"Why are you here, Madame?"

Hélène had no answer to that, barely to herself, and certainly not to him. But she had never lied to Combeferre. She had kept things from him, told fragments of truths, and never, never, except for that one enchanted evening, allowed herself to even think of the elusive spell that was so deviously hard to get rid of and that was torturing them both with its viciousness.

But never had she lied to him. And hence she answered truthfully.

"I don't know."

He had turned towards her again to watch her intently, grey eyes stormy with spirits and questions that she could not reply to. Her answer made him close his eyes and take a deep breath, his fingers around the mug tightening and releasing in an unconscious gesture, and he pressed his lips together.

Hélène had the faint feeling that she had angered him, and he seemed to confirm it, because, eyes still closed, he shook his head and placed his mug on the table with a distinctive clunk, fingers unsteady, now at last.

"This is madness", she heard him murmur, and he got up, on feet slightly shaken by the wine he had had, but the remnants of his languid grace still present. Whirling around – not even attempting at giving a regard to either her or his friends – he turned towards the door and stormed out, the creaking sound accusing once, then twice, and then he was gone.

"What was that about?" Bahorel asked in slight exasperation, before turning to the conversation he had had before, but when Hélène gazed back at the assembly around the table, she found Courfeyrac looking at her with a frown that spoke of displeasure.

"Don't you think that's quite enough, Madame?" he asked, almost under his breath, so that Hélène would hear it but it would mix and vanish in the overall murmurs of the room. She frowned, as if she could not believe that he was indeed speaking about this, voicing what she herself had vowed to never, never give form or speech. But there was so much of Alexandre in him. It was, what he would have done.

Courfeyrac, seeing the weakness of admittance in her eyes, continued on.

"Stop it, Madame. Whatever you plan to do. You're tearing him apart."

And myself with it, she would have almost thought, and felt tears threatening in her eyes at the mess her life had become, when first everything had seemed so clear.

Alexandre, bright, happy Alexandre, and a future with him, their dreams and courage seeping into the paper of his – of theirs, a marriage of true hearts and minds. And then the involvement with the Amis de l'ABC, and the utter confusion at her constant heart's wavering and shifting, the feeling of being torn and confused. Pushing through it with the courage of a soldier running into battle, steady in her vows and convictions.

She would have screamed at the skies to give her back Alexandre, give her back constancy and security, give her back what she had had, what she had dreamt, but she had done so, night by night, and god had not heard.

Alexandre was dead.

And her heart was still at war.

But Courfeyrac was right. She had hurt a friend who had been nothing but true and faithful to her, who had been constant, a pillar to lean on, a silver lining in the darkness of La Force.

A friend who loved her. She knew that.

As she loved him.

Things being as they were, she at least would have to take care of that heart he had pushed into her hands for safekeeping, for whatever reason he had done it.

And she was a bad guarding for so precious a burden.

Hélène made a decision and got up.

"I'm going after him", she said into Courfeyrac's slightly suspicious face, but he nodded and Hélène turned on her heel and left the Café, ignoring the curious looks on her back with practiced efficiency.

* * *

He had not come far. In fact, he was leaning to one of the pillars at the side of place Saint-Michel, his arms crossed before him as he stared up into the moon, tension returning into the stillness of his movements with the habit of long years.

Hélène approached him from the darkness of the gallery, her steps clear on the pavement, alerting him of her presence.

"Hélène…", her name whispered like a prayer, but he did not move an inch. He had closed his eyes – she could see as much in half profile – but his face was expressionless as he took a few deep breaths of night air.

"I'm here", she said softly, not sure if meant in reassurance of him, or just in confirmation. He seemed so far away at this moment.

Yet, he nodded, eyes still closed, head hung at the end of the movement as if strength had drained from him by it and left him utterly bereft.

"Why?" he asked again, the word pushed out between his lips as if going against resistance. How could she not have seen it? His body, every fiber, was radiating pain and reluctance, a war being fought in every muscle of this man, whom she had called her friend. He was always so calm and silent and reliable. His strength and constancy so easy to get lost in.

Hélène was done hiding.

"Because this is the only place I feel safe", she whispered, her heart jumping into her voice as it beat ferociously. It was so easy to say words of chaste affection. Except with him.

Because whatever it was, it was nothing chaste.

"A street in Saint Michel?" There was a hint of humor in that, but it was strained, forced, and Hélène recognized it for the desperate attempt that it was. His deep breaths, if nothing else, were telltale signs she could not ignore.

"No", she responded, still softly, and she wondered if he could hear her heart beat, loudly as it hammered against his chest in vigor. "With you."

He whirled around at that, a movement so sudden that it unsettled them both. She took an involuntary step back, while he had to brace himself on the pillar with one hand, his drunken mind not following his body willfully.

His grey eyes, in the moonlight, were a frightening thing to behold.

Spirits had chased away whatever barrier he usually set around himself, and his eyes allowed her a clear view on what lay beneath, and with a flash of intuition she realized, how accurate Courfeyrac's estimate had been, a split second before he lashed out at her.

"Don't do this to me!" His voice was not loud, but frighteningly intense and raw. "Please… I beg you to stop." He took a deep breath, but it failed to calm him as he shook his head. "I can't do this any more. This…" a helpless gesture between the two of them, trembling arm, limp fingers. He broke off suddenly, running the same hand through his hair, nervously, once, twice, in this infuriating, maddening, endearing gesture, but it seemed to do nothing to calm his nerves.

It seemed to soothe his anger, though. If it even was anger that was lashing out on her.

"I'm sorry, Hélène." His voice was softer, but curiously thick, and every instinct she possessed screamed to stop this, these raw, open words that he would so bitterly regret in the morning, she knew. "I'm so dreadfully sorry. I thought I could…", a helpless shrug, and again his fingers went up to his mussed strands, running through it in something close to desperation. "I thought I was stronger, I thought I…", and again he broke off, the weaver of words at loss for something to say, incoherent and inconsistent, but still, clear as daylight to her.

How much she had hurt him. How much they had hurt each other.

He closed his eyes briefly to brace himself against her response, but he was stronger than that and reopened them again, meeting her gaze with all the fortitude he had left. And Hélène could almost feel his frantic heart beating in time with hers. She had no idea what to do.

They were surrounded by specters and ghosts, Alexandre not the least of them.

"We are so miserable", she realized with a flash, shaking her head at the utter lunacy of it. The same instincts that screamed for Alexandre went out to him, traitorously and vicious, a surge so strong that she was threatened to be washed away in the tide.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, the minuscule imitation of a smile, of all things.

He shook his head softly.

"God, how I love you", he confessed, almost inaudibly. "And god, how I shouldn't…"

What did one say to words like these? Hélène stared up at him, awe, terror, love warring inside her heart as he looked at her, calmly awaiting her judgment.

His tortured gaze was gone now, as if putting words to the thoughts had finally brought him some measure of temporary peace again, but it had been at the cost of hers, and Hélène was lost.

Carefully, she raised a hand towards the side of his face, trembling only so slightly. He closed his eyes long before the contact, taking a deep, bracing breath in anticipation and for a quick instant, as she finally touched him, his features relaxed and he leaned into her as he released the breath he was holding.

For a moment, they just stood there as time passed by unnoticed.

Harrowing, this is, Hélène thought in awe.

But he found himself again, somewhere in the sea of their confusion, and he shook his head softly, raising his hand to grasp her arm, carefully, tenderly prying her hand away.

"Don't do something you will regret in the morning", he whispered, and only because she knew him well, she had an inkling of the price there would be to pay for the tender calm in his voice.

"It is rather too late for that for both of us", Hélène answered softly, and he actually smiled at that, so very ruefully as his gaze went to the floor and he shrugged slightly.

"You may be right in that…", he admitted, a trifle foolishly.

He turned away from her, leaning with his back to the pillar now, his gaze going over to the lightened windows of the café, as if wondering whether he should go back in there, but now it was Hélène, who would have this no more. Regrets be hanged, doubts be forgotten. She was Hélène de Cambout. She finished what she started.

"Times are changing, Jean", she said softly, and he flinched, a muscle twitching in his cheek at her use of this address. "The world is turning, and water is running down the Seine…"

She raised her fingers and smoothed out the strands he always mussed, tenderly, carefully, and he shivered and did not pull away.

"Look at me", she whispered softly, and after a moment's hesitation, he complied.

He was afraid, she realized with a flash when she looked at stormy, grey eyes that roamed over her face with infinite tenderness and care.

"Time will heal everything", she continued, and his eyes widened at that, "and we believe in nothing if not in a new dawn, you and I. Is that not so?" Her voice trembled slightly at the admission, at the utter lunacy of it, after all that happened, with all that was looming.

He shook his head softly, and the tremor that was going through him was strong enough to be visible.

"Don't say that, if you do not mean it. I would wait… you know I would wait, for whatever time it takes…" He was almost pleading now, beseeching, his eyes holding hers like a lifeline in the dark. "But false hope is…", but he did not finish the sentence, breaking off with a slight pitch in his voice as Hélène carefully placed both hands around his face, thumbs on his cheeks, guiding him closer to her tenderly, and he followed. Hélène, being unable to tell whether he was trembling or whether it was her own hands, that were somewhat less than steady, raised herself to her toes and kissed him, softly, carefully first, almost a question uttered, like a whisper.

Something that had held him back broke, and he uttered an indefinite sound that was not quite a sigh, not quite a breath, but in any way a release of sorts. Hélène found herself seized with surprising strength and agility and brought towards him, tall and lean and all nerves and love and disbelief, as he kissed her in earnest, his hands so careful on her back and in her hair.

He was breathing fire into her, a taste of love and wine and so inexplicably, overwhelmingly of him, and Hélène felt cherished and protected and for a moment, every thought and fear was chased away.

An eternity passed before he broke off, gathering her to him more closely still, calmer now as he rained kisses onto her closed eyes, into her hair, onto her cheeks, on the tip of her nose, worshipping and full of awe.

"Hélène… Hélène…", was all the whisper he could still seem to remember, while she was reduced to full speechlessness, swept away with the tide, now finally, and only when her head finally came to rest against his collarbone, the pounding of his heart mixing and mingling with her own, for a stolen moment in time, they knew peace.


	3. Eponine Enjolras: The heart of winter

**This was written for the christmas calender on tumblr - pick a date and write an E/E story, so that there is a story for every day in december. **

**This is the story for the 2nd of december, and actually relates to events happening on the 4th of december 1832...**

**What started out as a thought experiment has now become City of Glass canon, so this is where I intend to steer towards in the City of Glass...**

**I hope you like it**

* * *

**Eponine and Enjolras: The heart of winter**

_In drear-nighted December,  
Too happy, happy tree,  
Thy branches ne'er remember  
Their green felicity:  
The north cannot undo them  
With a sleety whistle through them;  
Nor frozen thawings glue them  
From budding at the prime._

Have you ever woken up to the smell of a baked apple? To the aroma of almonds and baked apple, placed in the oven for hours and hours until they are soft and warm and all that is good in winter?

Mother used to make them when Christmas was near, and the smell would wander through the inn and wake us from slumber knowing that there was a treat waiting for us downstairs in the kitchen.

Maybe it is a telltale sign of all that was wrong with the sense of business of my parents that in the "Sergeant of Waterloo" this was considered breakfast; baked apple with broth and a dash of cinnamon if the fancy took her; instead of a dessert for a dinner as most people would.

But Azelma and I, for us there was little more welcome than this smell at the beginning of winter.

Even after we lost the inn and moved to humble and ever more humble lodgings in Paris, the beginning of winter with its apples was a constant.

Almonds were overrated in later years, but there still were apples, the fruits of winter, and predictable as the sun rising in the morning there would be a morning where we would be woken by the familiar smell, and we would know and feel that Christmas was near.

It was one of the last things to go during our downfall, and the winter where both of us lay awake every morning, waiting for a smell that never came, was probably the clearest sign that we had lost all that was to be had in the world.

There had been no Christmas that year, but this was only an afterthought.

* * *

_In drear-nighted December,  
Too happy, happy brook,  
Thy bubblings ne'er remember  
Apollo's summer look;  
But with a sweet forgetting,  
They stay their crystal fretting,  
Never, never petting  
About the frozen time._

Have you ever woken up to a smell that left you disoriented and confused, not knowing where you were and caught in the specters of the past? A moment in time where, if pressed for an answer, you could not have given your name, or your age, or the location you had curled up to sleep before?

There was this morning where I woke to feel again as if I were eight years old, and Azelma was curled up against me as the smell of apples wavered through the inn. I was warm and comfortable, and only the slightest draft was wheezing over my face.

I stayed for a moment, buried deeply in the soft bed; wrapped up in the pillows and covers and the smell of apples, warm and cozy and completely content.

Only slowly I came to, and realized with a certain regret that I was not eight, but eighteen years old, and that I was alone in my bed, my sister halfway across the city.

But safe. Safe at least. Both of us. There was that.

And there was the smell of apples, which was very real.

Exchanging my expression of content to one of a deepening frown, I opened my eyes and found myself in new and familiar surroundings.

My little room on the top floor in the house on Rue d'Olivel, the place I had fled to after the chaotic days of revolution, and before I knew who I really was.

A former servants' quarter, tiny, but at my disposal, and better than any place I had had in a long time. I could not afford a bigger lodging and would take no alms of the lady of the house – and she understood me and charged a fair rent that allowed me independence.

It was a sanctuary for me, and the first place since the inn in which I slept truly well and deeply.

The roof was well-thatched, and there was only the slightest of drafts; the chamber was relatively warm even in winter. It was cozy in its own way, has a small carpet and a table with three chairs – there used to be four but the last one broke. The bed was broad and warm and a large armchair in the corner was even big enough for someone to sleep in.

As he had proven on several occasions.

Before he shared my bed. But we were not there yet.

At this morning I was on my own, alone with the dawn, the warmth and the smell of apples.

Inevitably, my gaze and attention was drawn to the small oven in the corner, well heated and filled with charcoal and the main source of the comfortable warmth in the room.

I shivered as I got out of bed, but curiosity had a way of getting the better of me, and so I wrapped myself in a shawl and padded over to the stove, wondering if I had even put on that amount of coal the night before.

The stove was not as I left it. Three cups had been filled with dark, rich soil, and I could not make sense of it. Yet, the red ribbon that had been placed around them served as the confirmation I didn't need – that this item in my apartment had not been misplaced or simply been not cleaned – but that there was a design to this that still escaped my understanding.

But the cups and ribbon were not what had drawn me to the stove in the first place, and so I tiptoed to the stovepipe that reached out into the room and took a careful peek.

Sitting in the smaller of my two bowls, there were two apples; red and well cooked through, showered in almonds. The smell was so much stronger here and I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, evoking images of safety and childhood, carelessness and winter.

Christmas around the bend.

Everything would be different this year, I realized with a mixture of terror and elation. My life had turned on its head and nothing, nothing was as it were. Mostly, the turns had been for the better – it was frightening to leave well-trodden paths but I had loathed my paths well enough to welcome each and every change to it.

And I had friends.

I had him.

And this was his design, certainly, for despite all his bright and shining words he was a man of action, when he was free to be so. And as I carefully took out the apples from the stove I felt as if for the first time since five years it had become winter again, truly winter, and despite having feared it for years and years I almost found myself wishing for snow.

I wondered, what Christmas would look like in this new world of mine.

* * *

_Ah! would 'twere so with many  
A gentle girl and boy!  
But were there ever any  
Writhed not at passed joy?  
The feel of not to feel it,  
When there is none to heal it  
Nor numbed sense to steel it,  
Was never said in rhyme._

Have you ever come home one night, tired and weary of the day's toils only to realize how much comfort a place can bring that is intrinsically yours, a place that allows you to be what you are, that is sanctuary, shelter and heart? And have you ever realized that something can be completely yours even if you share it, or especially if you share it, and that you can be free despite it still?

This is what I realized when I came home and found my room not deserted, but in fact occupied by him, sitting in the armchair with a book in his hands, reading in the light of a lone candle that kissed sparks into his golden hair.

In that moment, I was glad that he was there, and despite the glory he was able to exhibit, despite his noble attire, he seemed to belong there, exactly there, in my humble, little room with the tilted roof and the tiny window, a memory of the smell of the morning apples still hanging in the walls.

He lifted his gaze from the book he was reading and I felt his brows raising slightly in a questioning gaze that I had not considered arrogant for a long while.

"Eponine", he greeted me, and there was the hint of a smile on his face. He was in no hurry to place aside his reading but did so calmly while I disposed of jacket and cap, gloves and scarf, and when I was done I found him standing next to me.

"I hope you are well", he said and I nodded, responding with a quick, almost chaste kiss that tasted like reassurance. I am here. You are here. We are alive. This is real.

"Very well", I answered truthfully as his hands briefly ghosted around my face during the kiss only to let go of me again, reluctantly but without resistance. "I…", I hesitated briefly, unsure how to broach the matter but decided for bluntness in the end. "Thank you."

That called forth a true smile, magnetism lighting up in his blue eyes, and when he turned around to the stovepipe - almost involuntarily, I thought, but very traitorous none the less – there was a strange kind of childish pride in his face.

"You are very welcome", he answered softly. "Very welcome."

I stepped a little closer, his warmth adding to that of the room, and it made him turn back to me, looking slightly startled but the smile not wavering.

"How did you know?" I asked and he ducked his head in something like embarrassment, shrugging as his hands found my hips with just the slightest of hesitations.

This was becoming more natural. I soared.

"Jehan", he answered, and that word told the story in its entirety – my younger, shy sister who had captured Enjolras' poet friend's heart so well, might have told something to Prouvaire, who, in his usual perceptiveness, had warned Enjolras.

Who had acted upon the story, apparently without hesitation.

"Ah. Azelma", I voiced my thoughts, placing my hands loosely on the arms that held me. He took a deeper breath and blinked briefly, but he was still Enjolras and caught himself very quickly.

"Just so, I presume", he answered. "It seemed a gesture you would appreciate, I thought; and befitting, too."

He was being enigmatic, and probably deliberately so. I chastised him quickly by pressing his arms a little more, but I could not keep the amusement out of my voice as I spoke.

"Befitting?"

He started to say something, but then thought better of it and instead released me and moved over to the stove, where, untouched since the morning, stood the cups filled with soil.

"I have been told that the apples somewhat represented your family's tradition of starting the Christmas festivities", he began, placing the cups on the table carefully before he turned to me again. "And this is what we have done when I was a child."

Where before I had been grateful and slightly honored at his effort, I now had to take care not to gape at him. This movement seemed almost out of character, and it was a snipped of something that he only rarely allowed me to see.

Enjolras did not like to talk about the childhood he had had, and he was reluctant to trade stories or accounts from his earlier years. I had long wondered if this was due to the fact that he was attempting to hide something, but after a while I realized that he just thought it of no consequence.

He was of the opinion that his childhood had been boring and not worth the mentioning, no matter how much I would have been interested in hearing stories from it.

I was not sure whether he was sharing this on an own wish of his, or rather as a strange tit-for-tat-game, a response to him knowing the traditions I missed. Either was… breathtaking.

"What is it?" I asked, carefully keeping my voice steady over the pounding of my heart. I had only limited success, but he seemed nervous as well, somewhat uncertain of the situation.

"Wheat seeds", he responded. "Wheat of Santa Barbara."

The fourth of December. Santa Barbara. Today. Still, I did not understand.

"They will bud and grow until Christmas", he explained, "and the young wheat will then be used for the decoration of the dinner table."

He was facing the cups, not me, and I saw him rallying his courage, a deep breath, wandering through his whole body until he was standing fully upright again. His blue gaze held mine with warmth and a hidden smile. "Saint Barbara's Wheat well germinated is the symbol of prosperity for the New Year, that's what they say in Provence. It is… signifying of a new beginning."

I pondered this for a moment, holding his gaze without reservation. I knew he valued the evaluated thought more than the quick response, and in moments like this, he had the patience to wait. Still, something within him must have been restless, for he reached over the table, carefully entwining his fingers with my own, and suddenly I understood.

"It is a new beginning", I confirmed slowly, my hand returning the pressure he was seeking. He rewarded it with a quick tightening of his fingers, and something flickered within his gaze, too far gone to understand. "My life has changed, and I will never be what I was before. I can forget it all and start fresh."

He nodded softly, and I thought his breath was going slightly flatly. There was tension in him, and I sensed that I had not gotten to the bottom of the story yet.

So I took the path to its end.

"But I can keep the good things. I can keep what I want. That's what the apples are for, right?"

The tension evaporated from him with such a speed that I was almost surprised I didn't hear a snap, and in a moment he was around the table and kissing me, the fingers of his free hand in my hair, pulling me to him with vehemence.

I lost myself there and then, in this sudden moment of passion, and responded in kind, felt him release my fingers and gather me to him, and then time stood still and nothing mattered any more.

"You understand", he whispered later, when I was still in his arms but free to speak again, and there was a precious notion of wonder in his voice. "How is it that you always understand? How is it that I can see you growing, day by day? You see the open door, you dare the unmarked path. You are becoming what you can and want to be."

His arms tightened quickly, and the next words were almost inaudible, lost in her hair, but I was straining to hear and understood them none the less.

"Sometimes you are a wonder to behold."

And I thought of the wheat and the apples, and how he must have crept in here silently before dawn to prepare all of it. And finally I understood.

"I am no wonder", I answered softly, my fingers tracing spirals and lines onto his back, and from time to time, he shivered. "I am just me. No idol, no symbol. Just Éponine."

"You are a wonder", he answered, "but not an idol, no." He almost laughed, the notion running through his body, and close as we were I could feel it shaking through me as well. "For I am fully convinced that there is not a single person on earth that is your equal." He hesitated again, before he continued, more seriously. "In my eyes, that is. For there is only one Éponine."

I felt dizzied by the words and his proximity, but there was also something ultimately comforting and right about the way they were standing here, entwined and lost in each other. I had no response to his words, not yet, but I knew that he was looking for a different kind of response anyhow.

"So I chose my own path, forget what I've been", I carefully came back to wheat and apples, "but I keep Azelma and Gavroche. I keep apples and songs and the memories of stories. I keep the friends I made over the last year."

I separated myself from him slightly to look into his eyes, and saw them brimming with enthusiasm, for he seemed to long know what I was going to say.

But there is a special magic in words that are spoken aloud and so I continued.

"I keep you."

I saw the softening in his eyes, moments before he gathered me to him again, and we were kissing, in bites and plays and little gasps, his lips brushing over my eyes, and mine carefully peppering his jaw.

I heard him laugh, relieved and happy and young and felt myself laughing as well.

And for the moment, that was enough.

Have you ever known how it is to be loved? How it is to stand side by side, tall and equal, in mutual admiration and respect?

If you have you know it needs no words.

It just is.

* * *

_Poem by John Keats_


	4. Feuilly Katy: Reaching for the stars

**A/N: This is again City-of-Glass-universe compliant - however, it describes event that happened well before the story (the result of this development then can be seen in the city of glass).**

* * *

**Feuilly and Kataczyna: Reaching for the stars**

_**Winter**_

It begins on a winter day.

It has been cold for days, and still the air is carrying the promise of moisture in it. Snow has been absent, and the skies are clear, the light of the stars cold and distant as he walks through the streets of the city.

Frost, he realizes, has painted dainty flowers on the windows, and absent-mindedly he considers to make a fan, in white cloth and light blue stars, a bright, cool thing to dress a bright, cool lady. The daintiest brush only would do justice of the tender patterns, and it would be a painstaking work to reflect the reality before his eyes, but he does not believe in the worth of things easily achieved and half decides that the capture of this particular picture might just be worth it.

Winter is the cruelest time, with his small room frigid and the fire in the stove hardly warming it, and it is on days like this that it is hardest to believe.

It is hardest to believe that he may one day carve out another place for himself, away from the atelier that takes up so much of his time, away from the tiny room, away from cold and hunger. But there is a fire that burns within Feuilly, and it doesn't give in so easily.

But tomorrow is tomorrow, and today is today. And Janusch will not appreciate him stalling.

At Place Notre Dame he waits, casual as ever, the same off-handed elegance that is intrinsic to most highborn and so very difficult to achieve if one has not learned it at an early age. There was a time, early in their acquaintance, where Feuilly had thought to imitate him, his speech and mannerisms, but in the end, after a number of failures, he had decided to be himself instead and been better off for it in the long run.

Their friendship had not suffered from it.

"I was wondering already", Janusch says, his French free of the accent of his mother tongue. He was a chamaeleon and fashioned himself to be a man of many languages. Born in Posen, he was as German as he was Polish, and living in France for the better part of five years had made him a Parisian as well.

In the same off-handed manner that he held himself he brushed aside borders and traditions, and the worries that Feuilly had had with respect to the evening in front of them.

He had never been to a salon, but when he had voiced that concern, Janusch had started to laugh, loud and long, and clapped his shoulder. 'You're a joker', he had said, even though Feuilly had not felt that way. 'You'll do.'

"Wondering what?" Feuilly pushes back his cap as Janusch snips a half-smoked cigarette onto the streets. Waste, Feuilly thinks absent-mindedly, but he has become used to the fact, that there are things that carry a different value with him than with others.

"If you'd show up, of course." Janusch grins and claps him on the shoulder. There is something in his easy camaraderie reminding of Courfeyrac. "Come on", he says. "Let's go. Or we will miss all the good pastries."

And Feuilly again pushes aside thoughts and worries of entering another world for the sake of the confidence of a friend.

* * *

_**Spring**_

It begins softly as the first dawning of spring.

The salon is like a microcosm of its own, where drinks and words and trust flows freely, and yet she does not know when he first appears in their midst.

Later, when he is willing to tell her more than he would in the beginning, he tells her of her worries, of thoughts of inadequacy, but when she first sees him, truly sees him, there is nothing of it.

He is young, her age, dark hair and dark eyes, and a cautious smile that she knows she will never forget. A worn waistcoat, yet obviously the best he owns, given the fact that he always wears it when he comes, and for a moment Katya wonders about her lace and silk, the beauty of her golden curls dancing around her face, the necklace and earrings of diamonds and pearls.

She is beautiful, and she knows it in the way she knows that water is wet – a fact accepted, never questioned, and yet not a point of pride, not even a point worth mentioning.

Clothes and looks are nothing and words are everything and what beauty his clothes lack, his speech carries, and Katya finds herself missing when he is not there.

She wonders what would make him smile, and what would make him talk, not about the world, not about the people, but about himself and the life he leads, so far from hers and yet so near.

"A sou for your thoughts", she asks him one time when he stands aside a little, because Katya knows all about conversations and worming her way around obstacles, and she recognizes a chance if it presents itself.

He leans against the window to look outside, and this is odd because usually he is enjoying the gatherings, but today he looks tired.

He flinches at her words, and for a moment there is a frown on her face as he takes in her appearance (golden curls and blue eyes and pale skin, the pride of her mother and nothing to her), but apparently he remembers or does not care and smiles an absent-minded smile.

"I would not know if my thoughts would be of any diversion to you, Mademoiselle", he answers divertingly, but Katya is not easily distracted.

"Why don't you let me decide that?" she asks, directness making any avoidance on his part impossible. Subtle she is not, but she fears that between them they would be able to find enough subtlety to avoid any meaningful conversation if they really tried.

And that would be a waste of time.

"I'm Kataczyna Woroniecka", she continues, pushing forward fearlessly. "But most here do call me Katya."

That does prompt a smile form him, sudden and bright and almost honest, and Katya puts aside for further reference that directness and honesty would draw him out.

"Should not someone introduce us?" he asks her, a tinge of irony in his voice and Katya soars because this is a game she knows and enjoys and apparently he is able to play as well.

"Should… yes", she answers with a smile. "That would be proper, wouldn't it? Can you forgive me for not standing on ceremony in this? We are all friends here, one way or the other, are we not? And if someone were here to introduce us, there would be someone else here with us, and I would not be able to question you at leisure."

That makes him laugh, if only for a second, and he shakes his head almost disbelievingly.

"Why would you want to do that?" he asks, and Katya, exhilarated, gives him the best and only answer.

"Because I can."

* * *

Two hours later, between them they have emptied a bottle of Côtes du Rhône – granted, Katya has had the most of it while Feuilly has done an exercise in restraint, but still his cheeks are tinged with red and his eyes are shining.

She knows now that his name is Maurice Feuilly, that Janusch brought him here, and that he most enjoys the petit fours with cheese. He has a strange way of eating them, bit by tiny bit, and she realizes he is trying not to enjoy them too obviously.

It is probably a rare treat for him, she realizes with a sudden intuition, and wonders even more how he came to be here, in this place where polish emigree nobles meet and dream of the glory of a motherland lost. And because she is Katya, and because this strange young man intrigues her she simply asks.

He almost chokes on his petit four and for a moment there is a strange flash of fear running through his eyes. She is dismayed and steps back.

"I meant no offense", she apologizes, "and you must think me quite impertinent, I am afraid. It is…", and she grasps for words to explain why on earth she has almost trapped this young man here asking question upon question and finds she does not have means to explain.

Not even to herself.

"It is simple curiosity", she tried another angle, "and you must not feel obliged to indulge me, Monsieur Feuilly. It is only a whim, and probably not a very appropriate one."

But something in her tone wins him over, somehow. He takes a deep, rallying breath, coming to a decision and begins to tell a story.

And so Katya comes to know more of the man she will love.

* * *

_**Summer**_

The belltower of Saint Michel calls for the two o'clock mass and time is passing nowhere near as quickly as it should.

Feuilly clenches his hand around the lamp post he is standing close to and tries to calm his racing heart. Madness it is, but a strange kind of madness, and one that he is not sure he would be wished to cure of.

He has considered spending half of last months' spending on a new jacket, but something within him tells him she would know, somehow, and not approve. She has an eye for details like these and yet, never spends more than a moment to dwell on them.

This discrepancy is one of the many mysteries of Katya.

Quite as unexplicable, if not quite as wonderful as the fact that she had coaxed him into an outing on this June sunday, with the sun burning brightly in the sky and the city being full of people enjoying the first promise of summer.

And then she is there, all of a sudden, a vision of gold and blue and he does not even know what to say.

"You're a sight", he manages, finally, hardly aware that this is not quite an appropriate greeting, much less for someone like her, but for some reason a smile lits up her face and he does not regret his words.

"My mother has left for Madame Krasnicky", she says, vaguely triumphant. "We have two hours at least."

Two hours with Katya, stolen out of time, away from prying eyes. He smiles, slightly recovered now that she is here. There is something calming about her, something that sets him at ease, and he enjoys it without questioning.

"Very well, Mademoiselle Woroniecka", he responds, the foreign syllables on her name no longer alien to his tongue. "Let us go then."

He offers his arm and she slips hers through, almost skin on skin, only separated by a few layers of cloth.

And he could almost believe he had felt her shiver.

* * *

Katya, he knows, is a keen observer of human nature and behavior. They walk through the Jardin du Luxembourg and to everyone, to everything, there is an opinion, a story, an estimate to tell. For some time, they sit on a bench trying to guess the status of relationship of those wandering around them – mother and son, husband and wife, brother and sister – or the subject of the discussions they are having.

The fun is not in being right or wrong, it is in judging and understanding the little mannerisms and motions, expressions and movements, and Feuilly has long stopped to wonder why Katya had known almost all about him before he had even dared her to tell the beginning of his story.

And yet, none of it had shied her off. Not that he was an orphan, not that he was nothing but a workingman, painting fans for a meager living, not the fact that his living circumstances were questionable and his prospects were bad.

"You know, Maurice"; she begins out of the blue as they are moving through a more secluded part of the park, hedges and bushes everywhere, "none of them is moving quite like you, you know?"

Feuilly frowns, still caught up in observance and discussion.

"What do you mean?"

"The way you move"; Katya shares freely. "When you grow up as I have, they teach you posture, grace and poise, men and women alike. Some learn it more easily; others spend days carrying around books on their head trying not to make them fall."

The image of a nobleman's child balancing a book on his head is amusing and Feuilly chuckles.

"It's something that you learn as a child or not at all… and probably one of the things that make it so difficult for someone low born to be accepted in the circle of those of higher standing. It can't be taught, it's something no one thinks about."

She smiles.

"You didn't learn it either but… there is something singular about it. You do not walk like Janusch, or like any of the other men from the salon, but…", she shakes her head and blonde curls kiss her cheeks as she does so. He feels is finger itch to sense how these locks would feel.

He has had his adventures, but never with a lady as groomed as Katya is, and he absentmindly wonders if her hair would feel different.

"But…", he asks, rather out of reflex, and Katya sighs.

"Dignity", she finally concludes. "That's it. Dignity. You hold yourself in another way, stronger, less casual, less natural. But… there is something coming from within. A strength in your every movement, something that cannot be denied or ignored." A quick smile. "At least not by me. It made me curious, in the beginning."

He doesn't know where he takes the courage to ask "And now?"

She turns to him, eyes blue as the summer sky.

"Now it puts me in awe, Maurice, quite honestly." Her pale skin is flushed, maybe from the sun, but somehow he knows there is more to it. And his heart picks up its frantic pace again.

"Katya, I…"

She is a miracle in her own right. There is no falseness in her, and an honest love of people, of every single person, that he has never seen before. Growing up a noblewoman, having the perception she has, he has never seen her sneer or scorn. Katya is, and sees, exactly what is and not what seems. And being with her, it does not matter what he is, or where from. It is a glimpse of a world that he is dreaming of, and yet, in Katya's eyes he can see the future become the present.

"Sometimes I wonder…", he continues carefully, "… what you want from me."

She smiles and halts in her stride, looking him in the eye and this is, he thinks, and odd moment to realize that they are almost standing the same height.

"Want…", she says wistfully. "Is it not rather a question on what you are willing to give?"

And in her blue eyes it is clear, oh so clear, and Feuilly wonders where he should find the courage to jump. But this is Katya, and nothing is difficult, nothing is doubtful when it comes to her, so in the end he simply does it.

Her hands in his are cool, her smile is warm, and her kiss is a blaze of light in which no question, no worry can withstand. And as he feels her – slightly trembling – against him, he knows that he is lost, deeply and utterly lost, and that however long he lives he will never forget the mixture of rose water and her, the feel of the golden ringlets against his skin and the soft fire of the kiss that is forging them anew.

"Why…?" he finally asks, unable to believe his fortune, and she shakes her head, still in his arms, stealing the same moment in time.

"How could I not, Maurice?" and in her voice there is the same wonder, the same conviction, and in this moment he hopes, he prays that the dream will last.

* * *

_**Autumn**_

It doesn't.

"I don't care", she says, angry and worried and despairing and seeing her pain is akin to tearing his own heart out of his chest. Which, in the end, is probably exactly what he will have to do.

They have met outside again, and the leaves are falling around them as they all, trees and humans alike, cling to a last, fading memory of summer.

A stubborn, selfish part of him wants to beseech her, to risk the displeasure of her mother who would not approve of the simple fan maker who, like a rogue, has stolen her daughter's heart away. But Katya loves her mother, and she is not a revolutionary, not like he is one.

It is the one thing he could never ask of her. Seeing the pain in her eyes, it is the most difficult thing he has ever done

"I don't care", she repeats. "She doesn't know. She doesn't know who we are. She doesn't know what it means."

"You mean she has never loved?" Feuilly asks softly. Once said the word had been easy between them, tinged with a certainty that did not allow any doubt. Katya shakes her head, and a bitter smile ghosts over her face.

"To the contrary", she answers. "That is maybe why."

Feuilly frowns.

"What do you mean?"

She looks vulnerable, her arms slung around her upper body as she shrugs.

"Who knows", she says, "if I am really Woroniecka."

There is only bits and pieces he knows about her – he is much less proficient in the game of guesswork she excels at so much – but he does know that they fled here when the Grande Armee returned from Russia. He knows she is born in Minsk, where her mother married Anton Woroniecki, officer in the Tsar's army.

The rest, is guesswork. But it does make a certain amount of sense and despite everything Feuilly feels a sudden pity for the woman who, maybe, lost her heart to a man she was not married to, and then her husband and fatherland to war.

At times, there is something lost about Madame Woroniecka, and now, he even better understands why Katya would never go.

"You are Katya", he says softly. "That is why I love you. And that is why you must go back."

They have known each other for the better part of a year, and yet, despite everything that Enjolras usually says on the flightiness of women, this is the first time he sees her cry, tears running down her cheeks unhindered.

"I know", she says, her voice hitching in the pain they share. "I know."

* * *

_**Winter**_

Winter is grey and cold and cruel.

And time passes more slowly than it has.

The salons have become boring without him to share her thoughts, but Katya knows that there is no use in grieving and so she is as she ever were.

She suspects Janusch to keep them apart at his bidding, and although she knows it is maybe better this way she would have given anything to at least get a glimpse from him now and then, a hint of his smile or a few words to complement hers.

She could miss everything else if she could have that – they have been friends foremost and sometimes it feels as if she is missing a part of her thoughts, a spark of intuition in a line of discussion, the one phrase that he, and only he would say.

But he does not come and Katya does not begrudge him the decision.

Each of them must carry their pain as they will.

She does not manage to be angry, truly angry at her mother for it. She knows the story, knows how, newly married, husband absent in war, she lost her heart to a French officer, a man who was good to her where Woroniecki was cruel. And she knows that no one will be able to answer the question whose daughter she is, but as far as these things go, Katya does not care.

She understands her mother's worry because she knows the story how she was driven out of Minsk into the cold when the army left, with all the spite of the freed against their occupiers, and she wants to spare her daughter the same fate of an unfavourable match.

Katya understands, she always understands, and sometimes she wishes there was more courage, more anger in her to openly resist, but this is her mother and she loves her too well.

Come her birthday in February, there is a packet that arrives carrying a fan of exquisite beauty, white and blue, a painting like an ice flower on a window pane, and Katya decides this game as gone on far enough.

And she may be no revolutionary, but she is clever none the less.

Opportunity presents itself soon enough, and when his friend – bold, courageous, lighthearted, noble Courfeyrac – appears in the salon, finally Katya knows what she must do.

* * *

_**Spring**_

The belltower of Saint Michel calls again, and Feuilly feels as torn as he ever has in his life.

The proposition was as ludicrous as only one of Courfeyrac's propositions could be.

"I'll court her", he had said, "officially, that is. Her mother loves me, I'm practically made of all the stuff she wishes for Kataczyna. I'll take her out, and directly to you."

There was no future to this scheme, of course, but the temptation was incredible. To see her again, to speak her again – he had loved her kisses, but to be bereft of discussions with her had proven a much higher penance than he could have ever imagined – was too alluring to ignore.

If this is all they are to have, snippets in time and breaths in-between the tickings of a clock, he will take it, and willingly.

Courfeyrac is late – he should have known – but finally they arrive in a carriage, and while Katya exits, he remains and drives off – and suddenly she is there again.

She has not changed – not her smell, not her kiss, not the dimpled smile and sparking eyes, and for eternity he loses himself in her, raining kisses on her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes.

For a long while they just stand there, in this secluded area of the Jardin du Luxembourg, and winter is passing, flowers and leaves returning to trees.

"I missed you", she states the obvious, words half muffled against his shoulder. "This was a stupid idea."

"What is stupid remains to be seen", he responds tenderly, pressing a kiss against her temple simply because she is there and he can. "But god be good, I have missed you, Katyuschka."

Her arms tighten around his neck.

"Let's never do this again", she proposes and he feels himself nodding, although he has no idea how they should manage this, there is one thing that is surely out of the question.

He doesn't want to submit himself again to the agony that is her absence and apparently, neither does she.

"But how..?" he dares to ask. She shrugs.

And because she is Katya, she responds in the way he should have known she would.

"We take it a step at a time", she proposes. "We're smart. We figure something out."

This is how they should have done it from the start, Feuilly thinks, as he holds her and feels the way her heart beats with his.

This is how it should be.


	5. Feuilly Katya: Sommerkind

**A/N: For frustratedstudent. As a belated birthday present**

**As to the title: Sommerkind is german for "summer child"**

* * *

**Feuilly and Kataczyna: Sommerkind**

"You look so different…", he whispered, partly in awe, partly in astonishment, after a long span of silence. And she did. The blonde hair was wrought into a simple braid instead of an intricate bun, making her seem both younger and off-character. The dress was bereft of frills and laces, straight lines and simple cut, blue to match her eyes, but modest in its appearance.

Grisette Katya was a curious, glorious sight.

"I do?" She smiled, her eyes narrowing as she turned towards him, an expression of mirth, of liberty. That, at least, was her own, something, that could not be disguised or hidden, breaking through the make-believe like a sun through the clouds.

Not that there were any, to be honest.

The summer day was hot, almost stifling, but the heat was bearable here among the willows, next to the river that was flowing at a lazy pace, reflecting the light and promising fickle sparks like diamonds on its surface. A soft wind coming down from the Alps coaxed the leaves around them into motion, and the patches of shadow and light on her hair played a story as if drawn from a laterna magica, a story only known between the two of them and never to be told.

She was sitting against the trunk of a willow, legs stretched out before her, posture more careless than he had ever seen on her. Almost, she seemed like a child or a woman of lower stature, and it came naturally as everything seemed to come to her.

Katya seemed to do everything with ease, confidence and laughter. Revolution, diplomacy, love, it all came to her as naturally as breathing, and she danced through life and never saw darkness.

Feuilly basked in the light that she gave off by pure reflection.

Nothing in his life had ever been as easy as loving her.

"Yes", he answered softly to the long-gone question, his voice slightly hoarse, but neither of them minded. "You do."

Of course, her dress was a disguise, of sorts.

They had spent the morning in the village of Au, a suburb to Munich, a proletarian place to be, under the veil of secrecy, speaking to points of contact that had been provided to them by Joseph Sicar, giving advice, spreading the word and forming cautious links.

Right under the nose of Monsieur de Talleyrand, Feuilly and Kataczyna were leading their very own brand of diplomacy that had nothing to do with nobility or the king who had refused to see them for two days straight.

'Go south following the river. It's a beautiful area' Maximilian Floßner had advised them, when they had left the assembly, and Feuilly had taken the suggestion, Katya trailing along. And this was how they had arrived here, at a grove, an hour south of the Bavarian capital, next to the river and undisturbed by anyone else.

A basket of treats that he had procured at a farmer's house along the way was standing in the shade of the tree, and Katya, ever practical, had taken the bottles of beer and placed them into the floods for cooling while they waited and sat and talked.

"Curious", Katya answered, bowing over to let her hand trail through the cool water of the Isar. "I don't really feel different."

Feuilly watched her for a moment, unchecked, since she had turned her back to him to watch the river. And finally decided to ask.

"Why not?"

She could have given an easy answer, or even a snappy one, but Kataczyna knew him too well for this and gave the matter some thought. A splashing sound overlapped with the gurgling of the river as Katya let her hand run through it, swirling and confusing the water while she was sorting her own thoughts.

"Because I truly think it doesn't matter", she answered finally. "Not really. Not at the core. I am who I am no change of clothing would alter that."

The astonishing thing of these words were not the conviction or the ferocity that might have accompanied them. No. Katya found a wholly different tone for this statement, one that was not only speaking of conviction, but also of an astonishing calm. Had she informed him that summer was the hottest season, of course, the color of her voice probably would not have been any different.

This travel had been marvelous and frightening in equal measures. They had never been together for such an continuous amount of time, and with each passing day, they seemed to be more in harmony, guessing each other's thoughts, playing each other's plan seemingly effortlessly. Their trip was going as well as expected, better even, and he truly, honestly could not imagine what he would do once they got back to Paris and their separate lives.

He continued to prod because he could, having her all to himself on this undisturbed afternoon.

"And who are you?"

She smiled and half turned around, placing her head against the trunk of the willow she was sitting against, looking up into the branches that separated her from the sun.

"I am Kataczyna", she answered with a smile. "Polish by birth. European by choice." Her head turned around to him and she separated herself from the trunk, rolling onto her stomach. The motion brought her up right next to him, her side touching his thigh, and the eyes that looked up to him were earnest and crystal blue. "Yours by love."

Feuilly lifted a hand to her face, his fingers trailing along the soft, round lines, the dimples, the clear eyes. When his palm came close to her mouth, one of her hands sneaked up to hold it in place, allowing her to bestow a kiss into it, and a second one to his fingers, his thumb, his wrist.

It was a substantial effort to keep breathing naturally, and Feuilly felt his eyes closing at the gesture. Carefully, his fingers moved across her cheek.

"Mine…", he whispered, fingers tingling, heart racing, time stopping as she worried the soft skin between his thumb and his fingers.

And then, suddenly, she interrupted what she was doing. His eyes snapped open, but before he could find his footing again, she had rolled around another time, her head now finding a resting place in his lap, a blond braid lazily spread out over his legs.

Helpless, he ran his hand along it in a caress and lost himself in sky blue eyes.

"Yes", she answered softly, letting herself get caught by him, fingers in her hair, the other hand finding a resting place on her stomach. "Surely you know that."

He nodded mutely. Her hand snaked up to play with the buttons of his waistcoat, her gaze drawn to what she was doing, as if fascinated by the simple design.

"Yes", he whispered, not fully trusting his voice. She was close, so close, her warmth and touch everywhere. Speaking in itself seemed to have become insignificant, a mere afterthought.

"I'm not going away, you know?" she continued, and there was a tone in her voice he had never heard before. She sounded almost unsure, her words rough and somewhat less controlled than her usual, clear tones.

She sounded vulnerable, he thought with a flash of intuition.

"Whatever anyone says", she continued, "whatever happens. I'm not going away."

She let her hand run down the line of his buttons and he bit his lips to avoid a shiver to run though him. And yet there was the image of ballrooms, where she seemed so much at ease while he was awkward, the image of her mother, stern and noble, the image of her in laces and silks amidst his meager belongings.

And yet, this was a different world. A world they had changed together. Feuilly, being who he was, had place the cause above him, the dream above reality. But now?

Now everything had changed. He had changed, Katya had changed, but, with some exhilaration, he realized, that they had changed together. And they had forged a world that made it worthwile to believe.

"Marry me then", he answered before he lost his nerve, and that finally shook her out of her controlled position, her fingers dropping, her blue gaze finding his again. "Marry me despite everything. Marry me despite what your mother would say. Despite what Talleyrand would say, despite what would be talked about us back in France." He took a deep breath while she was raising herself slowly, turning half around until her face was level with hers, barely a hairs breadth away.

And while her sweet breath was running over his face she answered: "No."

The word had barely begun to register when she continued.

"I will marry you for you. For your courage", she whispered, placing a kiss onto his forehead, his brow, his nose. "For your strength and determination and cleverness. For loving me and for standing strong. For being Maurice, my Maurice. That is what I would marry you for."

Forgotten the sun, forgotten the dancing leaves, the summer heat and the river. He looked into the blue of her eyes, almost unable to believe, certainly unable to respond. She was everywhere, running through his veins, living in his breath, sharing his spirit, and carrying all the wonders of the world.

He felt a shiver run down his neck and realized it was her fingers, lying there, bringing his forehead to hers carefully. He followed, trustingly, as he had always trusted her, from the first evening when they had shared wine over the deception manufactured by Courfeyrac to this moment, that felt like closure and a door opening all the same

"I will not marry you to satisfy or spite someone else", she emphasized, and it was almost calming that he heard her voice shaking, audible proof of how much she was feeling and sharing this moment. "I'll do it because it's right. Because I'll regret it forever if I don't do it. Because I love you."

She made it sound simple, so simple. But then, maybe it was.

He closed his eyes and lost himself for a moment, in her smell, in the feel of her braid within his fingers, in the warmth of the sun and the moment out of time. The promise given was dancing like a spell through the air.

They did not even need a kiss to seal it. This bargain had been sealed a long, long time ago.

"It's probably befitting…", he continued, after a moment had passed and some of his senses had returned to remind him of society and conventions, "that I didn't even think of bringing a ring."

Her laughter rang out clear and sharp, her head still against his, but now she turned to watch him again, a first brief kiss whispering on his lips.

"It's probably befitting", she answered, "that I don't care."

The twinkle in her eyes called forth humor in him as well, and finally he laughed, laughed because he could, laughed because the situation was absurd, and funny, and so very, very them.

"Katyuschka", he answered, shaking his head before he let himself fall back, taking her with him as her lips found his and in between kisses he continued his words. "You are a wonder. A miracle. My love."

And lying between branches and sunbeams, light dancing and shadows playing, the water running down towards the Danube, they sealed the bargain between them, forged the promise never to be broken and dreamt of a future belonging to them.


End file.
